


tsunami

by fruitlouis



Category: Larry Stylinson - Fandom, One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, bulimic!harry, comforting!louis, i was in a sad mood, it's sad, you might get upset
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 08:10:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruitlouis/pseuds/fruitlouis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>oneshot about harry, who's bulimic, and louis, his partner. this was the first thing i ever wrote about these two, but i just found it again, so here it is</p>
            </blockquote>





	tsunami

He sat doubled over on the stark white bed, saltwater droplets sliding down his porcelain cheeks. The sound of rain ricocheting off the slate roof provided a haunting soundtrack for the gloomy event, adding an air of utter sorrow to the situation. Harry was breathing, but he wasn’t alive.

He had failed at life’s most dangerous game, as the excess skin was still there and his clothes still fit. His lean thighs still grazed each other, but only barely, letting the sun and all its glory shine through the gap. Each rib stuck out to grimace at you, the bones sticking up prominently like mountaintops beneath Harry’s once-tight band tees. Two razor-like cheekbones glared at you beneath a set of green eyes that had lost their luster. Harry’s clothes hung like dreary curtains on his fragile frame, but that wasn’t enough for the broken eighteen year old.

Twisted pathways of yes’s and no’s twined throughout Harry’s shattered mind as he contemplated glancing in the mirror; his mortal enemy and best friend. He knew that one glance would lead to hours spent harshly scrutinizing his scrawny frame, the aftermath leading to bitter sobs of shame. However, the devil won this battle. Raising his bloodshot, moss-colored eyes to the mirror, Harry drank in his miserable appearance.

A complicated knot of tousled curls that had lost their shine sat atop his head, with gaunt cheekbones stabbing outward below a set of maroon dark circles. His once creamy pallor had faded, leaving Harry almost translucent. Ribbons of blue veins twined throughout his arms, the blood inside them running cold at the sight of his appearance in the reflective glass.

He was a monster, with no chance of ever being normal.

No one in their right mind felt small ebbs of joy stabbing their empty stomach as vomit filled the toilet bowl, or as the sharp clanking of the flush echoed throughout the tile covered room. No one in their right mind felt immensely sickened by the mention of food, much less sweets. No one in their right mind felt a sour taste traipse across their tastebuds at the mention of calories, and no one felt bile well up in their raw throat at the idea of stomaching another meal.

But Harry wasn’t in his right mind anymore. He had left it behind ages ago, sitting in the middle of an empty train car, ready to be swept off to bulimia’s wonderful paradise full of bones and taut skin.

Ivory teeth grinding in protest, Harry squeezed his fluttering eyelids shut, blocking out the sharp pinpricks of light that glinted off the tile. He wouldn’t give in, not this time. He could hold down the four bites of his favorite chow-mein, even if it meant feeling like an overused coin; worn and ashamed.

But his iron will was ripped in two with the gurgling of his stomach, as it always did. Harry tried to hold it together, he really did. But his weakened mind was in no state for a battle, much less one of this massive size.

Frantically, Harry scuttled to the washroom door, tugging the tarnished brass knob outward. Goosebumps rose on his pale arms as he stepped across the flaking threshold, a feeling of relief overwhelming his fatigued body.

He was home, bulimia welcoming him with her widespread, brittle arms. She eagerly tugged her favorite patient into a hug full of sharp shoulder blades and knobby elbows, clacking her teeth against the quivering boy’s ear.

Kneeling down, Harry’s trembling hands raised the cheap plastic lid, his patchy elbows settling on the frigid seat. Blindly fumbling for the deep navy toothbrush he kept for this occasion, stowed away beneath the sink, Harry stretched his chapped pink lips into an o, and thrust the brush’s handle down his already raw throat.

Sounds of splashing rang throughout the room as Harry heaved, his bruised and battered chest repeatedly ramming the toilet’s edge. Gasping for air, Harry ducked his head again and again, removing his previous meal and the burdens that came with it into the water, all the while removing the emotional pains from his exhausted limbs. But powerful stabs of guilt replaced these, yanking Harry downward into an infinite spiral of despair.

He had broken his promise to Louis, who would now be disgusted with him. Harry had let the gruesome monster and her army defeat him, something he’d vowed to never do again after that night. But he’d shattered this same promise dozens of times before, each with the same result; Harry loathing himself even more.

Bile built up in his scratched throat once more, causing the destroyed boy to choke desperately, and finally release the meager remains of his stomach’s contents into the anticipating china bowl. Curling into an impenetrable ball, Harry rocked back and forth on his heels, an anxious and sorrowful feeling filling him from head to toe.

He was worthless.

The slight creak of their ancient apartment floorboards shocked Harry out of his reverie, a feeling of sheer terror flooding his senses. Limbs tensed and mouth hanging open, his mind rapidly processed the terrifying situation. Someone was home.

As warm, tea scented breath ghosted over his back and neck, Harry immediately became rigid, slamming the lid shut with brute force and gulping, his Adam’s apple bobbing. In one swift movement, a head of feathered chestnut hair was at his side, whispering sweet nothings into Harry’s ears.

Crooning sweetly, Louis wrapped his arms around a quivering and whimpering Harry, planting a constellation of butterfly kisses around the boy’s face.

“Hush babe, everything’s going to be alright, I’ve got you. We can defeat this thing, one cup of creamy hot chocolate with two extra large marshmallows at a time. Please don’t beat down yourself with guilt, I know how difficult this is for you, babe. I forgive you, don’t even worry about that. I promise baby boy, we’ll win. We will vanquish your unwelcome friend, tucking her away into the deepest depths of your mind. And never forget, you’re perfect to me, even with this disease. I love you, little Hazz.”

The vicious monster had thankfully left, retreating back into her jail cell. Harry was safe for now; he was with Louis.

Louis, his protector. Louis, the boy who could make everyone and anyone smile with a flash of his cerulean eyes or the tiniest smile tossed carelessly over his shoulder. Louis, the same boy who insisted upon using Harry’s favorite itchy woolen blanket on the couch during their cuddle sessions even though he hated it. Louis, the one who pressed soft, sweet kisses to Harry’s temple after a drunken night out; Louis, Harry’s perfect match in life’s world of locks and keys.

One word swirled throughout Harry’s brain as a rare state of peacefulness washed over him like a small tidal wave, wiping out each of the surfers riding it.

LouisLouisLouisLouisLouisLouisLouis

With Louis by his side, Harry was invincible. He could dance from bulimia’s clutches, breaking the illness down bite by bite. Their love could, and would, overpower her constant restrain on Harry’s life. Hand in hand, the couple could smash the disease’s lingering hold on Harry with their own tsunami of unconditional love.


End file.
